


Ashes

by atlas (cissysullivan)



Category: mcfassy - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissysullivan/pseuds/atlas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his home is destroyed by one of the German's bombs, Michael goes to live with a boy named James in an alleyway. They have the charmed life. Until James becomes ill and his lack of food catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write a short story for my literary arts class last year and this is what I came up with.

Once the noise had died down and the flames had subsided, it was only the ashes that proved the bombs were real. The calm after the storm was more eerie than relieving. It made what had happened before seem too surreal. It was too dangerous to grow comfortable to any sort of peace. In doing this, there would be no preparation for the next attack.

Michael had been up all night listening to the bombs. Whenever one fell, it shook the alley walls around him, convincing him each time that they were going to come crashing down around him. This wouldn't have been so much of a concern if it weren't for the fact that he was living in a hole in the alley wall, though it could hardly be called that. It was more like some sort of outcropping that had been put there by accident.

It was becoming more and more difficult for him to believe that, not too long ago, he'd been living in a house with his mother and father just a few blocks down from where he was now. Though he couldn't remember the way a warm bed felt or the taste of good food or not going to bed hungry, he did remember how that life ended.

It began with the death of his father or perhaps it began with his father leaving to go to war. Either way the man ended up dead only a few months later, devastating his mother. After the funeral, she locked herself away in her room only coming out when absolutely necessary. Soon it became so rare to see her that he felt strange when he was in her presence. Not too long after he had this realization, he did his best to avoid her.

It was around this time that the bombings started in London. Everyone had a bomb shelter built in their backyard and those who couldn't afford a personal bunker, went to the ones that had been made for the general public by parliament. Michael was never concerned that he and his mother could potentially die. The thought of his home being demolished by a German bomb seemed so surreal to him that he was almost convinced when he came home from school to find his house in pieces, he was dreaming.

Once he'd gotten over the initial shock, he sat on the curb waiting for his mother to come home from wherever she'd been when the bomb destroyed their home. He waited for hours, even long after he knew that she had been killed.

Near midnight, a policeman saw him sitting on the curb and asked him where his parents were. When he didn't respond, the man knew what had happened. He told Michael he was going to take him to an orphanage, but Michael didn't want to go to a place where he would be treated with sympathy.

In the back of his mind he knew it was stupid to bolt down the street. In all truth, the policeman was saving his life. He would have sent him to a place where he would have a warm bed to sleep in and good food to eat, but in the heat of his despair, he wasn't thinking of this.

He ran until he was unable to run any farther. By this time he had reached the part of London that was now just rubble. There were still a few buildings standing, but nothing suitable to live in. Still, he managed to find a hole in the wall of an alley and stayed there until he was sure the policeman was gone. Trying to melt into the shadows cast he found he was not alone.

Expecting this person to be unhappy, Michael had gotten out the dark space immediately. He was just thinking of walking to the orphanage himself, when James had poked his head out from the small black cavern to tell him he could stay if he liked.

Soon after meeting James, Michael learned he was older than him by a year. He also learned how to pick pockets, steal food from the nearby supermarket, and find or beg for coins if they were truly desperate.

James told the older boy that he hated begging. He preferred to get his own food by his own means. He said that it was far more dignified than begging for others to give them what little cash they had. Though Michael hated stealing, when they were both terribly hungry, he did as the younger boy asked. They were with croissants, breads, and small sandwiches.

Anything they stole they preserved. This was why they ate only when they were extremely hungry. But they always ran out eventually. Then they'd spend several days painfully hungry before they were finally able to get their hands on something. Right before they ran out of food, they would take turns eating. One of them would eat one day and then the other would eat the next. Even then, they didn't eat much, since food was so scarce.

Currently, they were at a point where they couldn't even leave their alleyway because they'd stolen too much. They'd nearly been caught only a few days, which had resulted in a head injury for James and a three day search for the two boys.

"In a few days, they'll forget about us," James told him, licking his chapped lips. "Then we can go back into town and get more food."

But it had been a week now, they were running very low on food and whenever Michael went to check the supermarket, he found it swarming with policemen that had beating sticks in their hands and cuffs attached to the gun holsters around their waists. He always returned to find James handing him half of a roll. When he asked if he'd eaten, he nodded saying he'd had something the day before.

"I thought I ate yesterday…" Michael would say confused.

James always shook his head, responding, "No, I did. Remember?"

He gave his friend a smile that hid the haggard look that a boy as young as he should not have had. Michael never questioned James if only because when he did, the smaller boy would protest, saying it was unfair he got all of their food, while his best friend got none. The older boy would say it was the other way around and the younger one would disagree. Their fights always ended up hurting the both of them so much that when Michael was given food, he took it begrudgingly and didn't argue.

"You need food, Michael," James constantly told him. "If you don't eat, you'll get sick and then you'll die. If you die I'll be all alone and I can't be alone. I can't live without you."

Sighing, Michael came back into reality and drew his knees up against his chest, gazing around their hovel. His clothes were ragged and worn. He had become pale and he was starting to see his ribs whenever he took off his shirt.

A hitching breath sounded to his left. Michael looked over to see James still sleeping. He smiled. Staring at him, he realized it was nearly dawn. Knowing he would be unable to sleep, he crawled out of the hole and headed towards the supermarket. He was going to get them some food. He was going to nick an armful of rolls, along with some apples and croissants if he could find them. Then he'd go home and give them to James.

Even as he thought this, he knew it was a fantasy. James would insist that Michael ate first and Michael would agree because arguing with James hurt his heart.

* * *

_"It's not going to the supermarket that's tough. It's the going back that's difficult. You have to make sure no one is following you. You have to look casual, though you're terrified of being caught. If you pretend you have every right to be where you are, then no one will know you're actually going around nicking food."_

As Michael walked into the supermarket square, he thought of the things that James had taught him when he first brought him here. He was only praying that the policemen would be unable to recognize him with a scarf that covered most of his face. He'd found the scarf lying in the street. It didn't look too clean, so he wouldn't bring attention to himself.

_You're just going to grab a few rolls and leave. No one will even notice they're gone,_ he whispered to himself as he drew ever closer to the baker's stall. Once there, he stood idly by, pretending to be examining the rolls before he grabbed four and shoved them into the pockets of his fraying coat. He checked to make sure no one had seen him before he began to walk away.

Four rolls was not the feast he'd been hoping to attain, but he was not going to get caught. If he was caught then James would be alone, he would have no food and he would be unhappy. The thought of James unhappy, crying himself to sleep, made Michael's already fragile heart ache. He would never allow that to happen.

"You! Boy! Take your scarf off!"

Michael whirled around to see two large police officers, standing only a few meters behind him. Swallowing hard, he bolted down the sidewalk, winding through the streets, trying to confuse the men with the way London's labyrinthine alleyways.

But they'd done this before and they were able to keep up with him. They could turn the sharp corners just as well as he could. Their boots pounded the slick cobblestones into the ground. Their voices became louder as they drew closer.

They were going to catch him and take him away, away from James. Just as before images of James horridly unhappy filled his mind. He tried to push them away, but when he found they made him run all the faster, he used them. He allowed them to be his fuel. They would get him home, get him to James.

* * *

The alley Michael chose to hide in was dark even in the daylight. This was because the rooftops were connected, creating a space that blocked out the sky. He looked up just as a small droplet of water fell onto his face, just below his eye. To anyone passing by it would have looked as though he were crying.

Swallowing, he felt his pockets to make sure the rolls were still there. He knew they were before he stuck his forefinger in the top, running it along the smooth top of the roll. Losing them would result in them being hungry. They couldn't survive being hungry much longer.

Michael had long since realized he was the healthier of the two of them, but this realization had only come when James told him to go and check to see if the policemen weren't surrounding the supermarket anymore. Normally it was James who would do this, but when the older boy saw how exhausted he looked, he didn't argue. He was still unsure as to what was wrong, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach and fear in his heart. Something terrible was going to happen.

Pushing such unsavory thoughts from his mind, he glanced around the alley corner. He could still hear the policemen, but they were farther away now. If he ran now, they would hear him, but they wouldn't reach him. They would be unable to find him.

This thought in mind, he dashed out of the alleyway and sprinted down the street, taking a different route than the one that had gotten him here. He didn't slow his pace until he'd reached east London.

There was a smile on his face, a spring his step and hope in his heart. Once this war was over, he and James would be able to be warm and full again. He closed his eyes, slowing his pace and allowed the beautiful images to come: roaring fires, tubs full of warm water, an oak table covered food.

That was when he heard it.

Michael's eyes snapped open immediately as he tried to discern where and what the noise was. It was horrible. It sounded as though someone was chocking on their own blood. He shuddered, moving towards the space he shared with James. However, the sound only became more prominent. He realized it was James who was making those awful sounds, seconds before he turned into the alley.

A terrible sight met his eyes. James was retching. He seemed to be throwing up everything that was in his stomach, but that was just it. There was nothing in the younger boy's vomit. It was only his stomach fluids.

_He hasn't eaten today,_ Michael thought rushing over to him.

He knelt down slightly and placed his hand on James' back to sooth him, but he pulled away instantly, straightening. Through the younger boy's shirt he could feel his spine all too well. He could have counted every single bone in his back if he wanted to.

"James…" Michael whispered, his wavering voice betraying his fear and despair.

The other turned towards him and gave a weak smile. He was trembling from how frail he had become. Still he somehow managed to pull himself to his feet. He stayed that way for only a moment before he collapsed.

Michael lifted him, swallowing bile of his own as he felt how light the other was. He placed James atop a ragged blanket before he took off his jacket and covered the smaller boy with it. Though he was warm beneath the folds of the tattered cloth, he still shook violently.

For the first time since the death of his mother, Michael cried.

* * *

James awoke only two hours later, which startled Michael. He had been certain that as weak as James was, he was going to sleep for the rest of the day and into the night. In fact, a small part of him had been thinking that he would never wake again. However, he started when he heard a small whimpering noise coming from the makeshift bed.

Turning, Michael saw James was awake. The younger boy pushed himself up onto his elbows and began coughing violently. The other moved into the alley hole and ran his hand up and down James' back. This time he did not move away. Instead he pulled him closer and whispered soothing words until he fell asleep once more.

The younger boy had a fever, he realized. He was too warm under the jacket. Keeping this in mind, Michael carefully unbuttoned James' shirt, not wanting to wake him.

His fingers froze the moment the fabric moved enough to give him a proper view of the small boy's chest.

His ribs were visible. Very much so. It was only now that became perfectly clear to Michael that James had been lying when he told him that he'd been eating. He had never eaten a thing. He'd just been trying to save Michael when he knew there was no way they were going to be able to go back into the supermarket. He'd known only one of them could live and he had chosen his friend. Because this he was little more than a skeleton papered over with skin.

Michael forced himself to keep undressing his friend, reminding himself that this would help him, make him better. However, the more of him he saw, the more he became certain this wasn't going to help in the slightest. He was fighting a losing battle.

* * *

The next time James awoke, he was more aware of his surroundings than he had been earlier. For several minutes, Michael didn't even know James  _was_  awake. It was only when he heard a shuddering intake of breath that he glanced over his shoulder to see the young boy ghosting his fingers over the lightly bleeding rash that covered his ribs.

Michael moved to James' side. He pulled him into his arms and moved the boy's sweaty hair out of his eyes. James smiled and took Michael's hand in his own. He closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his features as he struggled to draw yet another breath. Michael tried not to wince and turn away as he saw what pain his friend was in. But it appeared the pain was only momentary for as soon as it had appeared it vanished and James was smiling once more.

"Michael…" he whispered. He gave his hand a weak squeeze. The light behind his eyes was still there. It wasn't burning as brightly as before, but it was there and it made him smile. James was getting better.

"Are you okay?" he said softly.

James nodded, still smiling, though the light in his pupils was coupled with pain.

"I'm…I'm fine…" he managed to gasp out. There was a short pause before he added, "Please…t-talk to me…s-sing to me…"

Michael looked at him confused. Sing to him? He wanted him to sing? Why would he want that? He'd only sung to him once before and that was when he'd been hit in the head by one of the policeman's beating sticks. He only sang to him because he thought he'd been hit too hard. He'd thought James was going to die that night that was why when the boy had asked him to sing he did.

"Please Michael…" James whispered the desperation in his voice more prominent than before. "I-I want to h-hear your voice…" He took several deep breaths, "Just…one last…time…"

"No…no James…" he begged. "You're going to be alright. This isn't the end I promise."

He received no response. Only a weak finger, running lightly down his cheek. Michael listened as James took ragged, shallow breaths. He listened to the winces the younger boy made and tried to ignore them, but it was so hard.

Licking his lips, Michael began to sing. His voice shook, tears ran down his face, but he sang. He sang because James had asked him to. Because James was dying and this was his last wish. How could not grant the wish of the person he loved?

He finished quickly and once he did, he looked down to see James simply laying there, a smile on his face. For a moment, Michael thought he was gone, but then James whispered something. He said it so softly that Michael had to lean forwards and tilt his ear towards the others lips to hear exactly what it was he said.

_Michael…_

He whispered his name

There was a small sigh, as his body was rid itself of the air it no longer needed.

Then he was gone.

It took several minutes for Michael to realize that James was now dead and gone. Once he did, he whispered, shaking him slightly, "James…"

Nothing.

"James…please…"

He did not wake.

The next time he shook him and begged him to open his eyes he was sobbing. He held the small boy's body close, his tears, melding into the other's hair.

_You need food, Michael…because if you don't eat, you'll get sick and die and if you die I'll be all alone. I can't live with you._

The remembrance of those words made him cry all the harder. He couldn't live without James either.

* * *

After the initial shock and despair over the loss of his friend, Michael stayed in the alley wall for several hours, simply holding James, staring at nothing. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair until it was dry. He ran his thumb over the back of his palm until his hand grew cold. He pressed kisses to his cheeks, telling him that he would never be forgotten, would always be loved.

It wasn't until the world had grown dark that Michael picked up a small drawstring bag, wrapped James in the blanket and carried him deeper into the damaged part of London.

Michael set James down on a stone slab. He didn't know what it been before, but it was perfect for what he was planning. He poured a small can of gasoline over the blanket, pulled a matchbox from his bag, struck one of the matches and lit his friend on fire.

Though he had cared for James more than he had ever cared for anyone else, he did not cry as he watched him go up in flames. He didn't flinch away from the stench of burning flesh. He didn't leave his James' side, even when the bombs started falling. He stared into the fire watching it burn. He did not move until dawn when the sun was just coming up over the horizon and there was nothing left of his friend but a small pile of ashes.

He didn't watch the sunrise. He went over to the slab and began scooping the ashes into the drawstring bag. He didn't leave until he'd gotten all of what was on the stone. All of this was James and he couldn't live without him. He needed him with him always.

Michael walked away from the stone slab where his friend had burned. He walked away from the alley where his friend had died.

And not once did he look back.

* * *

_Fifteen Years Later_

A man sits on a porch. He is twenty-five years old. Next to him is a beautiful woman with long brown hair. She is laughing with the two children sitting in between them.

Though the man looks happy, there is a pain behind his eyes. No one knows where the pain is from and no one ever will. What they do know is that it has something to with the drawstring bag tied around his waist. No one knows why, but he wants to be cremated when he dies. He wants to have his ashes placed inside the bag and he wants the bag to be buried in east London, in an alley that has a hole in its wall.

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently being revamped into something more of an original novella. I'll still probably post it here because it originally was a McFassy story.


End file.
